The grief of the ground is in him, yet the power
Of Earth to hide the furrow with the flower.
He is the stone rejected, yet the stone
Whereon is built metropolis and throne.
Out of his toil come all their pompous shows,
Their purple luxury and plush repose!
The grime of this bruised hand keeps tender white
The hands that never labor, day nor night.
His feet that know only the field’s rough floors
Send lordly steps down echoing corridors.